The Danish Danish Crisis
by LOTRPJOHP13133
Summary: Denmark runs out of one of his favorite commodities, and history (somewhat) repeats itself. Luckily, he has friends and saviors in the right places.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: long author note right here. Please read it though.**

 **Hello, and welcome to** _ **The Danish Danish Crisis**_ **, a collaborative story between me (RebelsAdvocate) and Abby (LOTRPJOHP13133)! The odd chapters will be mine, and Abby has the even ones.**

 _ **Hi, Abby here, I will be mostly talking in italics just to make it easier if both of us are talking at once. So this story is RebelsAdvocate's baby. She came up with the idea, proceeded to dare me to write it, but I got lazy and didn't want to butcher her idea so I made her write it with me. This story is a wild adventure of chaos so fasten your seatbelts and get ready for this beautiful work of art.**_

 _ **P.S. RebelsAdvocate is a much better writer than me. Give her love and go read her other stories.**_

 **Shush. Abby is a good writer, too.**

 _ **Oh also since I am publishing this story, if you have read either of my two other stories, I'm very sorry for the stupid long break. I don't have a good excuse. I started to write an epilogue for my PJO story, but I think I'm just going to leave it up to your imaginations. My Superwholock story I am rewriting because I felt that I went too fast through the whole thing. I know I only published one chapter but I had quite a bit written out. So I will probably be uploading a better version of that this summer. Hopefully. No real promises there, but I will try my best.**_

 **This idea came to us on a fleeting breeze of genius, inspired by our real life events and modeled after the Norwegian Butter Crisis of 2011. We did put some unnecessary** _ **(completely unnecessary, but we're nerds who like to push ourselves too much so yeah)**_ **research into this, but everything is not going to be perfect, because after all, this is somewhat crack. We will take some creative license along with all of the** _ **other**_ **drastic measures we will take. Also keep in mind that neither she nor I actually live in Denmark, so...feel free to enlighten us if you are a friendly Dane.** _ **Please**_ **do enlighten us.**

 **Synopsis:** _ **Denmark runs out of one of his favorite commodities, and history (somewhat) repeats itself. Luckily, he has friends and saviors in the right places.**_

 **Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

* * *

He didn't know when it had begun. But he knew he would ride it out until the end. For when things like this happened, he always did just so.

By Tuesday, he wasn't sure anymore.

* * *

Sun's Day

* * *

It was Sunday afternoon, two days before the confusion and the chaos and the end of the world. Enter the personification of the nation Denmark, crashing his bike into a telephone pole in Copenhagen. Getting up. Cursing loudly. Waving happily at a nearby alarmed pedestrian, who gestured for her small child to look away. Shoving his bike into a rack, forgetting to lock it up, and entering the grocery store with a skip in his stride and a smile on his face.

He liked to shop on Sundays when there was nothing to do and his boss wasn't nagging him. These days were also the days he baked and visited his closest friends, the other Nordic nations. Denmark hadn't done this in a while, and was planning to surprise them tomorrow with a box of pastries from a one-way flight to Oslo.

Two steps into the store, it was clear that his plans had been thoroughly wrenched. A nauseous feeling hit Denmark like a speeding bike would hit a telephone pole, and he stumbled back one step.

He didn't know how he knew; maybe it was one of the special attributes of being a nation. Maybe Norway's magic powers were rubbing off on him. Maybe he just had a really great sense of smell. Because two steps into the store, Denmark knew that there were no pastries here for him to buy.

It couldn't be true. The Danish pastry—the Viennese treats, the wondrous wienerbrød—was too important of a product to not be featured in this large grocery store. Confusedly, Denmark stepped back out, the bell over the door ringing eerily behind him.

 _Huh,_ he thought. _I guess…I'll just get them at the bakery a few streets over._

Another two steps outside, and Denmark found his bike had, in a totally unexpected turn of events, been stolen. He cursed loudly again and began to jog.

Minutes later, Denmark, a stitch in his side, entered the bakery. It was a nice place, frequented by happy customers 24/7 and owned by an elderly chef (he _knew_ he knew _this_ because he was Denmark). But the same thing happened. He took a few steps past the threshold and gasped in surprise. There was no wienerbrød here, either.

At a _bakery. How._

Denmark, in a flabbergasted haze of insecurity and disbelief, dragged himself up to the counter. " _Pastries_ ," he demanded, panting. " _Where_." He collapsed onto the countertop in desperation.

The worker, a petite lady in a red apron, jumped back. "Haven't you heard, sir? There's a shortage of bakers because they all went on strike! No one's making weinerbrød anymore!"

Denmark stood up to his full height, puffing out his chest. "That can't be true. You're lying."

She frowned at him. "Sit on down, son, because it _is._ Happened just the other day. Bakery business everywhere in Copenhagen has ground to a halt, all because that one tightass Austrian chef set up shop a few blocks down. Yer the first customer to walk in this door since last week; everyone's goin' over there! And plus the mad cow disease rapidly 'ffecting our livestock, and the hurricane that knocked a fleet of our grain imports off course, and the new health regulations...everything's goin' downhill."

A spark of anger ignited inside of Denmark. _How could all this have happened, and he be completely in the dark about it?_ "So you don't have supplies to make the wienerbrød, there's too much business competition… How are you making money?"

She guffawed. "Who are you to ask?"

 _I'm your_ country! he thought-screamed at her as he stomped out of the building dejectedly, feeling betrayed and stupid. He jogged back to the grocery store he had come from, determined to buy his own things to make his own food, but the stocks were indeed empty as the lady had said.

After an embarrassingly long while of moping, Denmark came to the conclusion that it was no matter. He could just eat other things until the country's imports picked up again and the situation was reversed. He tried not to think about how this would affect his economy. He tried not to think about how this would affect his daily ration of thirteen-point-five Viennese treats a day. He got home, stuck his face into a book, and tried not to think about it all.

But when the next day rolled around, he knew he couldn't ignore this dastardly situation forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, welcome back to** _ **The Danish Danish Crisis**_ **! Today we have my(Abby) first chapter. I had a lot of fun writing this because Denmark is crazy and doesn't know how to stay out of trouble. This chapter has a bunch of time skips, so sorry in advance if that bothers you. I know absolutely nothing Denmark or traveling in Denmark so I had to time skip anytime he traveled anywhere.**

 **If you happen to be from Denmark, or have been there, feel free to correct me or offer advice.**

 **Please leave a review letting us know what you think of everything so far! We love feedback!**

 **Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

* * *

Moon's Day

* * *

 _BEEP. BEEP._ Denmark groaned and and fumbled around in a desperate attempt to make his alarm stop beeping. He knew he should get up, but it was still so dark out, he was tired, and his bed was so warm and inviting. _BEEP. BEEP._ He still hadn't managed to hit snooze, so he sat up with a sigh and looked over at his clock.

 _6:10._

 _OH, SHIT! My flight leaves at 6:30; I gotta go!_ he thought and scrambled out of bed and raced around his room trying to find his clothes and bags.

Five minutes later he was in a taxi on his way to the airport. _Okay. Deep breaths. It can't get worse than this,_ he thought. Oh, how wrong he was. There was traffic. Not a lot, but enough to make him even later than before. _Of_ all _the times for there to be traffic at 6:15, why does it have to be when I'm already running late?_

Fifteen minutes later. As soon as the taxi had stopped, Denmark was out the door and inside the airport. _Oh god, I still have to go through security._ He quickly got into line. He was practically vibrating. He just wanted to see Norge and eat wienerbrød. Was that too much to ask? Apparently it was, because just as he got to the front of the line, he heard the last call for his flight. "No, no, no, no—that's my flight! I gotta go!" he yelled, and took of towards the gates.

He had, of course, run off without his ticket, and before he had even finished going through security. "Hey! Wait! Sir, you can't—" the woman behind the counter began to shout, but he didn't hear, or just didn't care, and kept running.

To say that he caused a scene is an understatement. Everyone was craning to see why someone was sprinting through the airport at six in the morning. Not to mention the security guards chasing after him. Denmark somehow managed to stay ahead of them all the way to his gate. That's where everything started to go downhill. First, they wouldn't let him on the plane, because he'd left his boarding pass back at security before he ran. Then, the security guards caught up with him. _I'm so dead. My boss is gonna kill me._ Two of the guards took his arms and began to steer him farther into the airport, and another took his bag. "Hey, look guys I gotta go! I'm supposed to be on that flight!"

No reply.

Denmark let out a long sigh. "You guys can't arrest me! I'm your county! And I'm supposed to be on my flight to have a meeting with Norway!" The last part was a lie, he just needed to seem more official so they would hopefully let him go.

The guards looked at each other, sighed, turned him around, and began to lead him to the exit. "Wait, no, I have to get to Norway! You can't kick me out!"

They said nothing and just continued to lead him to the doors. Once outside, they dumped him on the ground and hailed a taxi for him. "Go home," one of them said. "If you really want to get to Norway, use another airport and don't cause a scene." The guard who had been holding his bag threw it into the taxi and held the door open for him, quite gracefully.

With a sigh, Denmark stood up and clambered into the back of the taxi. He watched the security guard close his door, going back into the airport with the other two guards. "Where ya headed?"

He rattled off his address and the driver pulled out onto the road. There was more traffic now. More people were heading to work. More time for him to get in a small nap.

Twenty-five minutes later, he climbed out of the taxi, grabbed his bag, and headed into his house. He pushed the door open, threw his bag down onto the floor next to the door, and went into the living room. He collapsed onto his couch with a loud sigh, wrapping himself in a fluffy blanket, and curling his body into a compact ball. _I just wanted to see Norge. Why does the world hate me?_ He thought, and then proceeded to quickly fall asleep.

Three hours later, his stomach woke him up. He needed food, preferably pastries. He groaned loudly and rolled off the couch, landing on the floor with a loud thud. He tried to stand up and walk to his room, but the blanket was tangled around his legs, and he pitched forward onto the floor, letting out a loud yelp. "Why does this happen every time I nap on the couch?"

After several minutes of wiggling, Denmark finally managed to untangle his legs from the blanket. He got up and tossed the blanket back onto the couch. "I fold that later. I need pastries." Grabbing a sweatshirt, his phone and his keys, Denmark exited his house. He was gonna find his pastries if it was the last thing he did.

 **Copenhagen, 10 minutes later.**

Denmark walked into the grocery store that was closest to his house. He had been in here the day before, but he needed to check again. There _had_ to be wienerbrød here, they couldn't be completely out. After a quick trip around the store, he found that they were indeed _completely out_. There was no wienerbrød anywhere in the store. He had even gotten down onto his hands and knees to check under the shelves just to check, and had gotten several odd looks in the process. He ended up leaving the store slightly upset, but not deterred. He _would_ find some wienerbrød somewhere.

Next store, still no luck. He had snuck into the storage room in search of pastries. He didn't find any. On of the workers found him and threw him out. They didn't even listen to his explanation. He was now banned from that store.

Five stores later and still no luck. He gave up on Copenhagen and headed to a new city.

 **Aarhus, 3 hours later.**

New city, new stores. There was bound be to wienerbrød here, right? _Wrong_. Several angry store managers later, Denmark had made no progress in finding wienerbrød. The only thing he found was that he was now banned from two more stores.

 **Odense, 1 ½ hours later.**

No luck here either.

 **Aalborg, 2 ½ hours later.**

Nothing. Denmark was getting desperate now.

 **Frederiksberg, 4 hours later.**

He just wanted to go home and sleep. He was tired.

 **Copenhagen, 12 minutes later.**

Finally home. He could sleep now, but not until he'd had at least _some_ food. He heated up some leftovers and ate quickly. He put his plate away and cleaned up the kitchen and his mess in the living room from that morning.

Denmark flopped onto his bed with a sigh. Just as he was about to fall asleep, an idea stuck him, and he sat up with an excited gasp. "I could ask Sve and Fin for help!"

He quickly jumped out of bed and hurried to his desk. He grabbed a blank sheet of paper and began to scribble his message onto it.

He rolled his finished message up and stuffed it in an old empty beer bottle that he'd left sitting on his desk. Satisfied with his handiwork, Denmark trotted out his door. He had a message to deliver.


	3. Chapter 3

**The author would like to add that she doesn't know nothing about the royal family of Denmark's reading habits.**

 ** _OK_** _ **I am so so so so sorry about the long break. This was entirely my(Abby) fault. I kept pushing off writing and tried to blame it on track(kinda was partially tracks fault there were so many meets and practice is so long) but it wasn't a real reason because I had plenty of time when I was doing my homework. I would end up sitting there doing nothing for a good hour before I would actually start homework, and then a long time after.**_

 _ **Anyway I am very sorry and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**_

 ** _As always please leave a review and let us know what you think. If you are from Denmark, or any of the other countries mentioned, and we got something wrong, please let us know!_**

 **Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

* * *

Tyr's Day

* * *

"Help?" Finland set down his mug. " _Help_? Is—is that all?"

"'s all it says." Sweden held the bottle out for Finland to see. Inside of the stained, alcohol-smelling glass was a rolled up leaf of notebook paper. Scribbled onto that paper in panicked, streaked handwriting, was the world _HJÆLP_! The bottle had washed up in the harbor that afternoon, and some sixth sense told Sweden he couldn't ignore it. Initially, seeing the funky combined letters in Danish had made Sweden grunt with amusement, but after thinking about it with Finland, he realized the situation was probably more serious than it seemed. Denmark often didn't ask for help. He was too prideful. "Should we call him?"

Finland laughed lightly. "Probably. Who knows what he's gotten himself into?" He stood up from the couch and helped himself to Sweden's house phone. (He had stayed in Stockholm after an ambassador's meeting yesterday.) "...I hope this won't charge you or anything," Finland said after dialing Denmark's number.

"'s fine," Sweden remarked.

They listened to the phone ring.

* * *

Approximately a thousand-or-so kilometers away, Denmark did not hear his phone ringing. He had turned the TV up too loud, and the sounds of the music, the voices, and the popcorn crunching in his mouth overpowered any sound. If Ragnarok had begun waging outside, he would have missed it completely.

He had woken up that morning (that _mid-morning_ ) with a colossal headache. His hair was a percentage less gravity-defying than it had been yesterday, he was sure of it. He was painfully hungry, so he made himself a bowl of cereal as he assured his boss nothing was wrong over the phone. _No, I was behaving at the airport, I swear! And that thing in that town…no, that shopkeeper was a big meanie. He deserved it!_

Hovering behind their conversation was the TV, and broadcasting over the TV was the news. Denmark found himself unable to listen to his Prime Minister's voice asking him to come in for conferences, as he focused on the news anchor's voice.

"Because of widespread crop failure, alien sightings, irregular fish migrations, and the crown prince's new interest in the _Fifty Shades_ trilogy, it doesn't look like the financial situation will get better as of the moment." The anchor stood in front of a closed-down bakery, the wind carelessly, coldly tossing her hair about. "We'll have to settle for _no_ wienerbrød for the next few days to conserve resources. I repeat, _no_ pastries. Sorry, folks." She paused, leaning into her headset. "Wait, is that right, Christian? _No_!" Shakily, she continued. "Yes, citizens, I'm just getting word now that good ol' _Hamlet_ , proud wild boar pig father of thirteen, respectable resident of our beautiful Copenhagen Zoo, has passed away unexpectedly of natural causes just a few minutes ago, at the wise age of fifty years old, which is _very_ wise for a boar, anyways, but I mean we all have our time and Hamlet was _revered_ , uh, uh, and his family is doing the best they can—oh, how I feel for Oinkphelia, _Øfelia_ , oh, _oh_ …" She whisked away a stray tear.

Denmark hung right up on his boss. "Not Hamlet!" he cried, sinking to his knees. " _Anything_ but Hamlet!"

The day got worse from there. Denmark's small house lost power just before lunch due to weather conditions he hadn't known about, so he had to eat cold, pre-cooked fish leftovers for a meal. It tasted just like he had expected it to. He wasted time wiggling into a suit and taking the bus to the location of the conference, only to find out that it had been canceled. After stopping by the zoo to pay his respects, he found himself drifting over to a certain bakery once more.

Denmark had wondered about the "tightass Austrian chef" ever since hearing the outspoken clerk speak about him, or her. It didn't take much asking around to find the bakery, and when he did, he wasn't surprised to see the doors boarded up with a giant CLOSED BECAUSE OF CRISIS sign. So even _this_ had gone out of business. As Denmark made for home, he couldn't help feeling increasingly worried for the sake of his people. It seemed every time he got his hopes up, they were crushed. "Crisis," the sign had said. The very word was enough to provoke fear in the hearts of nations.

Power had flickered on back at home, so Denmark decided to forget his misery and watch _The Lego Movie_ for the umpteenth time. It always brought up his mood. He shed his suit and curled up with a comfort object (his axe) on the couch.

Afterwards, the iconic credits song blasted loudly through the house, and it was because of this reason that Denmark missed the phone call.

A few minutes later his cell phone rang again. The TV was black and silent, but he still didn't hear the classy ringtone because he had fallen fast asleep.

(The phone did intercept a _third_ call, but no one heard this third ring because while Denmark was asleep his axe had slipped out of his hands and crushed his cell phone into a million tiny pieces.)

* * *

"Yeah, I'm not getting anything either," Iceland said, setting Norway's house phone back into its place.

"That's stupid," Norway told Iceland. "He's not responding," Norway told Finland over his cell phone.

"That's strange," Finland told Norway over Sweden's house phone. "He's not responding," Finland told Sweden.

"That's surprising. I will try from m' cell phone," Sweden told Finland. " _Hej hej,_ " he offered into his phone. An error message popped up on the screen.

"Says he cannot be contacted. There's a problem," Sweden told Finland.

"Hm. Certainly seems like a problem," Finland told Sweden. "Denmark's phone isn't working," Finland told Norway.

"How problematic," Norway told Finland. "Denmark's phone is jacked up," Norway told Iceland.

"Ugh. I guess we will have to fix this, somehow, won't we," Iceland said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Welcome back to The Danish Danish Crisis!**

 **This chapter was so much fun to write once I got going. I'm sorry again for how long it took to get the last chapter posted. I had trouble getting this chapter written, but once I got going I was able to get it out. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **As always please leave a review and let us know what you think!**

 **Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

* * *

Odin's Day

* * *

Norway, Iceland, Finland, and Sweden were all gathered in Sweden's kitchen. They knew that they needed to help Denmark, but the challenge was how exactly they were going to do it.

"Does _anyone_ know how we could help Den?" Finland questioned yet again.

"No idea," Iceland muttered, distracted by some game he was losing horribly to on his phone.

"Ice, could you stay off your phone for ten minutes and actually _try_ to help?" Norway beckoned, already completely done with the whole situation.

"Not really. Busy with something," Iceland replied, still tapping away rapidly on his phone.

Norway let out a sharp breath through his nose, reached over to Iceland, and snatched up the cellular device.

"Hey! I was busy!" Iceland exclaimed.

"Yeah, sure, because the Kim Kardashian game is the best thing to be spending your time on right now. It keeps us _very_ busy."

"Give it back, Norge! I'll miss my photo shoot and I need stars!" Iceland yelled, and lunged at Norway in a desperate attempt to get his phone back.

"Iceland, please! Not now!" Finland said, while Sweden chuckled from his spot next to Finland. "We need to focus on helping Den!" Finland turned to Sweden and hit him lightly on the shoulder. "Stop laughing, Sve! You're not helping!"

This only made Sweden chuckle more.

"Look, little brother, you're not getting this back until we figure out how to fix Denmark's mess," Norway said. He then proceeded to sit on Iceland's phone so he couldn't get it back.

"I don't think I want it now," Iceland grumbled, looking slightly disgusted.

"Anyway," Finland interrupted, "do we even know how this all started?"

"Well, Icelan' wasn't paying attention, and then Norway started t' yell at him—"

"Sve! That's not what I meant and you know it! What I meant was, how did Denmark's Danish crisis start?" Finland exclaimed. There was no response. He waved his hands. "Does anyone even _know_?"

Iceland, who was glaring at Norway and being extremely unhelpful, shrugged his shoulders. He at least had the decency to look apologetic as he glanced at Finland, and then resumed glaring at Norway.

"My boss told me the economy crash happened because he lost that last football game," Norway said with a small shrug. "I doubt that's why it started, but then again, knowing Den, it's possible."

Iceland, who was still glaring at Norway, looked at Finland. "Well, if we're giving ridiculous reasons… I was told that all the riots happened because Denmark recently declined .00042% on the World Happy Scale."

Norway raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Ice? Where on earth did you hear that? That's crazier than my idea."

"I _did_ say that it was a ridiculous idea." Iceland said. "And I don't remember where I heard it, I just know that I did. Anyway, can I have my phone back? I contributed to the conversation in a positive way. I think I deserve it."

"Iceland, that was possibly one of the least helpful things I've ever heard you say. You just said some stupid rumor that you heard."

"So…the same thing that you did…?"

"…Shush, Ice."

" _Okay_ , so, from what I'm hearing, no one has any real, helpful reasons," Finland said with a sigh.

"Yeah, sounds about right." Iceland said, earning a long, firm poke in the shoulder from Norway. After a second, Iceland flinched and smacked his hand away.

"No talking unless you're going to be helpful," Norway snapped.

Iceland glared at his older brother. "Why don't _you_ try being helpful. You've had a food crisis recently; how'd you get out of that?"

Norway blinked slowly, leaning back. He shook his head, recalling the hellish memories, and stared off into the distance looking slightly pained. A foreboding howl echoed from outside, far away. His hair flowed softly in a wind no one else felt, brushing against a pale face that appeared suddenly…older. Fire and chaos reflected in his eyes, smoldering there for a few seconds, and then burning out. His body was overtaken by a shudder. Omnipresent green mist dissipated. Norway blinked rapidly, cleared his throat, and turned back to Finland.

"We need to help Denmark," he said with a more serious tone. "I was a mess during my butter crisis, and I'm normally in control. But Denmark…he's already a mess when he's _not_ having a crisis, so now..."

"He's gonna be even worse," Finland finished, his eyes widening. "We have to do _something_. We can't just leave him alone."

"How?" Iceland asked. "We don't even know how it started, and it's different from Norway's 2011 butter…problem. I doubt any of us as personified nations can help an entire _actual_ nation."

"Maybe we won't have to," Norway said, and launched into his idea of how to "fix" Denmark.

A couple hours, three arguments and a liter of beer later, they had fleshed out a shoddy plan.

All they needed to do was get into Denmark (which wouldn't be that hard), find Den (this would be slightly more difficult; who knew where a pastryless Denmark would be), get him some wienerbrød (this was gonna be an interesting task), and then distribute to the masses (should be simple, right?).

The first thing they needed to do was make Vienna bread. It should be relatively simple. They just needed to follow the instructions. That wasn't too hard.

Well, it would have been a lot easier if they had all the proper ingredients. Sweden hadn't gone to get groceries recently, and had virtually nothing. They had to go to the store, which took longer than it should have, because Finland got distracted by dogs that were for sale outside of an adjacent pet shop, and Iceland managed to get lost while playing Kim K on his phone, which he stole back from Norway (they had had to call security to find the young nation back).

After nearly two hours later (way too long for a simple supply run), they were back in Sweden's kitchen attempting to make wienerbrød.

It was going as well as anyone could expect from Sweden—who was good at following instructions but smug towards Denmark and therefore had to be watched for sabotage attempts—Iceland, who had never touched an oven before in his life as he lived solely off of a massive stockpile of candy hidden in his sheep shed, guarded day and night by Mr. Puffin—Finland—who enjoyed baking for special occasions but tended to randomly, mysteriously and accidentally blow things up—and Norway, who had a hobby of baking and was rather good at it, but couldn't hold out more than a minute without reprimanding someone.

So far, there had only been one small explosion (Finland), one batch of rock-like wienerbrød (Iceland), and one nearly perfect batch (Sweden). Norway was nearly done with his batch, and the treats looked like they were going to come out well.

Finland was currently covered in flour from his explosion. He was trying to brush himself off in vain while Sweden laughed, meekly helped, and continued to make another batch.

Iceland was bravely attempting to make more wienerbrød, but was failing horribly. He finally gave up and decided that he would be more helpful if he danced around behind the others and sprinkled flour onto their heads. Finland, of course, hated this, as he was still covered in flour from his explosion and was trying to get cleaned up.

Several hours later they had finished baking and had six good batches, three decent batches, and four ruined, unuseable batches (not if you counted Sweden's second batch, which everyone was pretty sure was stuffed with something inedible). The whole group was covered in flour due to the all-out war. Finland had gotten tired of Iceland pouring flour on him had turned and smashed flour in Iceland's face the next time he came around behind him. Iceland had then flailed, causing flour to spray onto Norway, who then threw more flour back at Iceland.

Sweden had managed to stay out of the flour fight, until Finland noticed that he was standing off to the side laughing. His laughter had earned a bag of flour poured over his head and a ticket into the war.

After they were all cleaned up (which took several hours; they kept finding flour in odd places and Iceland thought it would be funny to blow all the sediment that was on the counter onto the floor, so it was nearly midnight by the time they were done) and had all the pastries (the edible ones) packed up, they made their way to Denmark.

Whoever decided that four Nordics were allowed to be stuck on a train together for longer than ten minutes (the ride was nearly forty minutes long) had something seriously wrong with their head. Making the wienerbrød and the clean up had taken so long because of constant arguing and pranks (Iceland).

Now, they had to act like adults for a prolonged period of time! Thankfully, almost no one else was awake at twelve in the morning, so they were mostly alone in the train.

About ten minutes into their journey Finland fell asleep with his head resting on Sweden's shoulder. A little old lady sitting in one of the seats across the aisle glanced over at the pair of them and smiled. Then, she made snappy finger guns at Sweden and mouthed " _Get some!_ "

Sweden immediately went red and turned away. Norway, who saw the whole thing, choked on his coffee. Iceland promptly stood up and began to walk away, but Norway grabbed him by the waist and pushed him back into his seat.

Iceland, making direct eye contact with Norway the whole time, put his headphones on and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He then turned his back to them, and pulled his knees up into his sweatshirt, and didn't speak again until they crossed the border.

Soon enough the four crossed the border into Denmark. However, they were surprised by the unexpected weather conditions. As they got out of the train and into the station, they experienced something that struck fear into their hearts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: this chapter might be slightly disturbing for a K+ audience, but ehhh.**

 _ **Ok this chapter made me worry for RebelsAdvocate's sanity a little bit, but ya know it's fine. This is fine.**_

 **As always please leave a review and let us know what you think!**

 **Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya**

* * *

Thor's Day

* * *

Denmark was in deep trouble.

When he woke, his house was silent. He guessed it had to be a while past midnight, but all the lights he had left on were off, and he couldn't see a clock anywhere. His mind was clouded, and his movements sluggish. Why was it so cold? And so hard to breathe?

He reached around for his phone, blindly feeling in the dark. His fingers grazed against something firm. When he followed the shape of the object, he felt ice. It took a minute to realize he was touching his axe, which was lying prone on the floor. Denmark shivered. How did _he_ get on the floor, too? And what was that crunching sound when he turned his head?

Denmark hauled himself to a sitting position, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He dragged the blanket off the couch, but still felt numb when he draped it over his body. Nervous laughter burbled up in his throat, and he worked hard to contain it. He swept his hand over the couch cushions, and when his phone could not be found, he began searching the floor. Nothing was found but a strange pile of metal shards.

"TV, why are you off?" he asked the silent screen. He had been watching _The Lego Movie_ , right? Last night? Yes. " _Everything is awesome…_ " The last note was partly cut off due to a shiver seizing his body. Denmark almost collapsed, but was shocked upright when the memories came flooding back to him.

No. The movie was _two_ days ago, wasn't it? Too much time had passed; he could recall getting up off another couch, finding his phone broken, going to a conference, getting yelled at by his boss, falling asleep on the couch again in front of a terrible news reel…right? Or was that yesterday? Had _three_ days passed? Had _no_ days passed?

" _What goddamn time is is_!" Denmark sang-yelled at the pitch-black, empty house, then let out another string of curses when he remembered his phone was broken. He threw the blanket off of him, stumbling to his feet and tripping over his axe. "Anyone there?"

Of course, no one was there. Denmark was hearing things. And feeling things! He yelped when he tripped over the corner of the couch and landed on his face, then laughed when he ran smack into the wall and knocked down a framed photograph of Iceland and Norway frowning disapprovingly at the camera. (It was the one of only five photos of Norway to ever be captured.) Denmark, with a bleeding nose and a bleeding foot, stumbled into his kitchen.

He wrenched open the refrigerator door and let out a feral growl when the light didn't come on. How was he supposed to see his beer? "MEAD!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I need _MEAD_!"

Denmark rummaged around for a few minutes, knocking cans and packages to the floor, which he didn't bother picking up. He couldn't see a thing, yet his vision was shimmering like a mirage. He found this funny and laughed, glass jars splintering to the tiled floor all around him. He tried to open a jar of canned meat with a knife Finland had bought him (for his birthday!) and almost sliced a finger off. Blood spurted everywhere, mixing with the many colorful fridge juices already on the floor. Denmark laughed and laughed.

Outside, the wind was howling like a hurricane had come to town. Streetlights tried to flicker on, to withstand the disaster, but with no avail. Water could be heard pattering against rooftops and sloshing in the streets. The sound of the metro could _not_ be heard. It was no brighter outside, either, than it was inside Denmark's ghostly house.

Denmark, a can of meat and a half-empty bottle of cheap beer in hand, opened his front door and casually strolled outside into the monsoon. "Great day in Danmark!" he exclaimed, cheerfully, to an imaginary neighbor. Shapes and colors danced before his eyes. It looked as if the city was on fire.

Denmark took a sip from each of the contents in his hands and then woke up many hours later in the bathtub, soaking wet.

* * *

It was colder.

He reached for a towel, and in doing so, ripped the rack from the wall. He couldn't hear it fall. All he heard was his own heavy breathing and a far-off dripping sound. Denmark wrapped the towel around his shaking body and rested his head against the bathtub edge, trying to sigh softly, but failing as his teeth chattered away. His pants were on the floor next to him, and the whole room smelled like fish and bile. Denmark wanted to cry at his reflection in the mirror.

His hair was so...droopy. Not awesome. "Not awesome," he mumbled to himself. His face was cloudy with no chance of smile, and there was a bleeding wound where his neck met his shoulder. Denmark wanted to get up, to eat, to calm his growling stomach, but he couldn't feel his legs and didn't want to even attempt moving them. His memory was foggy, but he knew there were probably other bleeding wounds in other places on his body, too.

He blearily called for help, his throat going sore as he squeaked out the random names that came to his mind first. No one came. He was alone, in his house, soaking wet in an empty bathtub, and hurt.

So Denmark slowly dried himself off with the towel, trying but not succeeding to rub away the gooseflesh. His head pounded, and he almost passed out again when he struggled his way to his feet. He wanted to take a warm shower but didn't trust himself, so he carefully took another towel and wrapped it over the first. Denmark was a little scared to leave the bathroom, but made himself do it. He had to do everything for himself, now. All this was his fault.

And all because of a shortage of flour and marzipan.

Denmark collapsed weakly on his bedroom floor, the carpet digging into his face. So what, now? _Why?_ Was his country really in such a lousy state that it affected _him_? He tried to listen for the storm, but still couldn't hear anything. Was he going to die on this floor due to the crisis? He wanted to go outside and check, but was afraid of the flamboyant colors he had seen the first time.

" _Copenhagen's burning down…_ " he sang to himself (to the tune of _London Bridge Is Falling Down_ ), tears slowly beginning to pool up on the carpet. " _No wienerbrød to be found / Copenhagen's burning down..."_

He rolled onto his back and sang-screamed, " _Please save Denmark_!"

* * *

This was it, then, he thought.

Denmark was now huddled in the far corner of his cellar with no idea how he had gotten there, wearing three towels, the comforter from his bed, and oven mitts. Piled around him were stock containers of emergency food and jugs of water. Maybe sleep-Denmark had wanted to prepare for the oncoming apocalypse. Maybe sleep-Denmark was smarter than awake-Denmark.

He shivered. What was happening to him? He had heard about nations going crazy...going rogue...but didn't know if a crisis was enough to do it.

Denmark listened to the far-off howling winds, echoing blearily through the walls of his small basement, and the walls of his skull. It was enough to do it for him. His country was in ruins, his food was gone, his health was low, and his hair was droopy. Denmark felt that his face was moist, and when he reached up (after removing an oven mitt), he felt wetness. Was he crying? Probably. He didn't know what to do anymore, and with each _boom_ from upstairs he convulsed, thinking some demon was coming for his soul.

Hours passed, or maybe they were only minutes. Maybe they were entire days—Denmark couldn't tell. Down here, alone in his freezing basement with only canned meat and his thoughts for company there was no sense of time. He tried his best to stay awake. He shed a few tears to pass the time, he ate condensed cherries, he called out more names. But still no one came. And by the minute he got weaker and weaker.

What for a proud nation like himself to die here, on the floor? He didn't like to think about death, or what came after. He didn't like to think about how he would die. No nation personification did. It scared them. It scared him.

Slowly, his eyelids drifted closed. Denmark sank into himself, into the temporary warmth of his comforter. He laughed himself to sleep, wondering where he would wake up next.

Wondering if he would wake up at all.


End file.
